


shooting star never wished upon

by aalphard



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Color Blindness, M/M, Not Beta Read, Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Star Tears, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27559003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aalphard/pseuds/aalphard
Summary: 176,the counter tells him.When the first solid tear, tinkling and sparkling, falls down onto his lap, Kiyoomi audibly gasps, the sound echoing through the entire apartment. His eyes hurt like someone had just cut them open, and maybe the goddess had done just that with her long, translucent fingernails. It’s yellow, his first color. It’s the yellow in Atsumu’s hair when he stands just a few steps away from him. It’s the yellow glowing under his skin when he stands under the sun, waving at him with a warm smile on his face. It’s Atsumu, his first tears, through and thorough – and Kiyoomi isn’t sure what to do with this information.or even stars fall when they get tired and maybe that's the reason why kiyoomi had started to cry them, too.
Relationships: Komori Motoya & Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 32
Kudos: 257





	shooting star never wished upon

**Author's Note:**

> this story was inspired by this [thread](https://www.twitter.com/rchimedesu/status/1246209686682185730)!
> 
> rated m for minor/implied sexual content at the end! (very very minor i promise)
> 
> i'm sorry i took this long to finish it!

_I need to not hurt like_ _  
before, I cant keep this smile aloft..  
  
It's falling like a shooting star,  
bruised when it hit the ground  
never again found._

[ _(by Poetic T on hellopoetry)_ ](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4050839/shooting-star-never-wished-upon/)

* * *

It always starts with a gentle tinkle, they say, like a small bell moving somewhere far, far away. It starts with the absence of sleep and a thousand restless nights fueled by overactive imaginations and the painted canvas of conception. It starts with the howling wind and the thousand shades of darkness spreading through the night sky, the rain and the clouds that didn’t let anyone see beyond their fog, warning them to be careful, to reconsider their steps, to not be fooled by the false sense of security coming from the endless dark veil covering the world, from the bright spots that lured every night creature out, that lured the poets, the musicians, the lovers and just about everyone who’s had their hearts captured by such an indescribable feeling.

It starts with a tinkle and then comes the sting. It starts with the chime of a bell and the pain that comes with a small, sparkling, wet stone, a solidified tear you cry late at night, listening to the rain and the wind howling right outside your window. It starts with the hole in your chest, prior to the tinkles and the pain, it starts with the little details forever engraved in your mind, the very things that make them who they are, the very things you can never allow yourself to forget, for if you do you’ll risk losing yourself, too.

You first learn about soulmates at the age of three. Your parents tell you about this magical thing on your wrist, the very thing you hate the most about yourself because you can’t seem to make it go away, you can’t seem to hide it as well as you want to and it just stands out shamelessly, a dark _0_ tainting your skin. It’s your lullaby, the very first thing you hear as soon as you wake up and the last thing before you fall asleep. There is a counter, they say, that shows how many times you’ve walked by your soulmate, knowingly or not. _How does it help us find them?_ , he had asked once. _It doesn’t_ , they said back. So, in the end, it was just a waste of cosmic dust settling itself uncomfortably under his skin.

Sakusa Kiyoomi was only five when it changed from a dark _0_ to a sparkling _1._

Like everyone else, he’s able to recite countless facts on the topic of soulmates and the stupid mark on their wrists, none of which ever made it seem less of an idiotic hysteria. They say soulmates are supposed to be together, bound by some otherworldly force none of the scientists managed to find or even begin to understand. They say you feel inexplicable joy when your eyes meet for the first time, they say your knees give in from under you and your world suddenly gets brighter. They say at least 70% of people happen to meet their soulmates at any given point in their lifetime, sure, but surely they didn’t interview the whole who-knows-how-many-billion-people roaming around in the world, right? They say you can live a perfectly functional life without ever meeting your fated one and _yet._ Yet, everyone made a big deal out of the counters and the thought of finally meeting the one person the universe picked out especially for you.

Sakusa Kiyoomi was eleven when it changed from _1_ to _2_.

A few days after that, it changed from _2_ to _3_.

Being in a successful relationship with your soulmate meant living a happy life – but weren’t people also supposed to be happy without ever meeting their soulmates? Weren’t soulmates just people who happened to pass by and change the nasty counter thing that crawled under your skin without ever asking for permission? Like everyone else, Sakusa Kiyoomi can recite every known fact about the topic of soulmates and the stupid mark on their wrists, none of which ever made it seem any more real to him. _It doesn’t make any sense in the end_.

And a few days after he turned twelve, Sakusa Kiyoomi learned about love diseases. He learned about the flowers that sometimes grow inside one’s body, carving out their marks as they forcefully try to leave, as they clog someone’s windpipe and kills them oh, so slowly if their loved one refuses to love them back. Sakusa Kiyoomi learned about every single flower, learned their meanings and memorized every single symptom, every little thing that might prove itself to be useful in the future. He learned about the beautiful yet painful tears that sometimes glow bright reds or oranges, that glow dark purples and blues, the swirling yellows and sparkling greens and everything in-between. He learned about the sting and tinkling, he learned about separation, screaming, arguing and the hatred that comes after that, the itch that came in waves and how a broken heart could, quite literally, wipe away the colors from someone’s life and take the breath right out of them.

Sakusa Kiyoomi was only thirteen when he decided he didn’t want anything to do with his soulmate, with love, with the counter on his wrist that had somehow changed from _3_ to _4_ and then to _5_ without him even noticing it. Such a cheap, replaceable, fleeting feeling, such a terrifying thing, he remembered thinking. Soon enough _5_ turned to _6_ and then to _7_ and an _8_.

When he first touched the colored stones, at the young age of fourteen, it was because of his cousin, because of his tendency to fall in love too quickly. Motoya wept and sobbed, orange liquid solidifying as soon as it reached his cheekbones, tinkling and sparkling before free-falling towards the nearest surface. His eyes were enveloped by a red hue, swollen and almost unrecognizable under the colorful spots and trails covering his lashes and cheeks. Sakusa Kiyoomi, fourteen, had no idea love was actually supposed to look like rainbows.

Motoya’s tears were rough and a bit sharp, sparkling like a bunch of constellations grouped together, like the crystals at the back of a dark cave, sitting patiently as they waited for the adventurers to finally find them at the end of their journey. Motoya wept and rubbed his eyes raw, asking him over and over again _why does it hurt this much?_ , asking _shouldn’t love be a good, beautiful thing?, then why does it hurt this much?_ Sakusa Kiyoomi, fourteen, might have started to think love was that stupid, unneeded but pretty thing you bought when you didn’t even want it in the first place.

A few weeks later, his counter went through a _9_ and a _10_.

Orange was no longer something Motoya could see, pink shooting stars flowing down his cheeks with a chiming sound before meeting the dinner table with a soft _thud_. Motoya kept his tears in jars, decorating his room with his own painful memories. _I might go blind_ , he told his cousin. _I might even lose a few of my memories_. Sakusa Kiyoomi, fourteen, couldn’t understand why someone would allow anyone else inside their heart if _that_ was a possible outcome. Sakusa Kiyoomi, fourteen, came off as insensitive when he asked _why can’t you move on from them?_ , while Motoya grinned his most adorable grin and shook his head. _It’s not that easy,_ he said. _You can’t get rid of love just like that._

It would’ve been easier if you could, is what Sakusa Kiyoomi, fourteen, didn’t say.

It would’ve been easier if you could choose not to fall in love, is what he didn’t say.

A dozen, maybe more, days and nights passed and slowly but steadily the jars increased in number, a plethora of oranges, pinks, greens and blues filling a whole shelf in Motoya’s room. His eyes were dull and his smile no longer carried that cheekiness, that childish energy it once had. Sakusa Kiyoomi, fifteen, couldn’t understand destroying yourself for the sake of loving somebody else. And still, _it’s a nice feeling when it’s not making me cry_ , he had said. _You’re crying all the time now, though._ Motoya had laughed for the first time in weeks, shaking his head at him before whispering that _it’s the best in those fifteen minutes when I’m not crying, it’s almost like I can see those colors again._ Sakusa Kiyoomi, fifteen, thought his cousin might have been going insane.

_Have you met your soulmate?_ , he had asked one day. Motoya giggled from under his blankets, the tinkling coming to a halt for a few seconds. _No. My counter is still at 0. Have you met yours?_ , he had asked. Sakusa Kiyoomi, fifteen, couldn’t bring himself to tell his nearly-blind cousin that _yes, we’ve passed by each other twelve times already._ Sakusa Kiyoomi, fifteen, started covering his wrists with bandages. _For volleyball_ , he lied.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, just turned sixteen, finally met someone who had bare wrists and the most dazzling eyes he had ever seen, a mix of everything warm and comfortable, desperately clinging to his shoulders and pulling him in, in, in, until he forgot how to breathe. _Are you okay?_ , he had asked. Sakusa Kiyoomi, sixteen, had never been so embarrassed in his entire life. _Yeah,_ he mumbled back. They were at the library, hands almost touching when reaching for the same book, something that might’ve been taken out of one of the stupid romance novels Motoya seemed to enjoy so much, and if he hadn’t been so enthralled by the guy in front of him, Sakusa Kiyoomi would’ve snickered. _You didn’t tell me your name_ , the guy smirked. _And you haven’t told me yours._

_13._

The tinkling stopped eventually. Sakusa Kiyoomi, sixteen, found out Motoya could no longer see the swirling colors of the sky when the sun came up, the blast of pinks and blues being covered by the white, fluffy clouds, could no longer see the oranges and purples when it came down at dusk. _The trees are gray_ , he said. Sakusa Kiyoomi, sixteen, thought to himself that maybe falling in love was the most painful death there was. _Are they supposed to be gray?_ , he asked. _Wasn’t the sky supposed to be blue?_

_14._

_15._

_16._

It always starts with a gentle tinkle, they say. It starts with the soft chime of a bell and it ends in red eyes and missing memories. It ends with more tears, more pain, with things you’ll never be able to get back. It ends with sore throats and runny noses, with sobs and bloody hands because you’ve scratched your face too hard trying to make your eyes see something they’ll never be able to see again. Sakusa Kiyoomi, sixteen, held his cousin as he wailed, as he wept, as he tried to carve his own eyes out, as he tried to find an answer to the millions of questions running around his head. _Is this what love is supposed to be?_

_17._

* * *

**comfort**

**/ˈkəmfərt/**

**_noun._ ** _1\. a state of physical ease and freedom from pain or constraint._

_2\. the easing or alleviation of a person’s feelings of grief and distress._

**_verb._ ** _ease the grief or distress of; console._

Sakusa Kiyoomi, nineteen, has two things on his mind.

The first one is the extensive research on the starry tears he started just a few months ago, with the pile of books on the side of his desk and the thousand tabs of articles about the disease. It doesn’t have a cure, the articles tell him, you’ll forever be scarred by the unrequited love that made you so weak it took away even the simplest things. Kiyoomi knows that’s not true because he’s read about people who got their colors back, he knows there’s a cure because there’s no way there isn’t.

The second one is the abnormally annoying guy sitting in front of him at the café and the way his hair looks almost golden, mocking him as it flows smoothly along with the wind. It’s the way his eyes scan the room and end up staring straight at him again. It’s the way he smirks behind his coffee cup as if Kiyoomi can’t see the way his eyes grow smaller and smaller and the way his smile grows so big the cup isn’t enough to make it disappear.

_164_ , his counter told him this morning.

_164,_ it screamed at him when he took off the bandages and hopped in the shower.

He doesn’t play volleyball anymore, the bandages don’t make any sense now.

_164,_ it echoes inside his head.

It’s been like this ever since they met. It grows and grows and grows, endlessly reaching up, up, up, and Kiyoomi would be lying if he said he didn’t think it was weird. Now, okay. Kiyoomi is a smart guy, he takes pride in that, but the blond mess in front of him doesn’t have a counter, doesn’t have a single trace of any kind of alternative soulmate mark, doesn’t have anything other than a frustratingly handsome and very punchable face, thank you very much. And yet. _Yet_ , he watches _8_ turning into _9_ , _9_ turning into _0_ and starting to count again and again, a never-ending cycle of silent encounters.

Or, in this case, not so silent ones.

“Today is like our anniversary or somethin’,” he chuckles.

“Don’t be stupid.”

If anyone asked, Kiyoomi would say he met Atsumu because they happened to bump into each other at the library because, hell, who knows, maybe one of them wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings. Atsumu, on the other hand, would gladly give them an in-depth explanation of how there were sparks and the world suddenly lit up when they reached forward to grab the same book, for it was written in the starts that they had to meet at that specific point and–

Well.

“Come _on_ , Omi.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and picks up his cup. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Of course he is. That is, in fact, _all_ he is – ever since that swift brush of their fingers, ever since that half-assed apology and a low _Can I buy you a coffee as an apology?,_ ever since Kiyoomi found out about this loud, annoying and kind-of-a-pain-in-the-ass guy who didn’t have a counter on his wrist, who seemed like he couldn’t care less for the fact that he hadn’t been assigned to someone at birth, who seemed to believe in every romantic cliché there is, who seemed to want to make Kiyoomi’s life a living hell. Miya Atsumu, Kiyoomi has come to know, is like a thorn in his side, constantly reminding him of the pain he witnessed, of the explosions of colors and their downfall to nothingness. Miya Atsumu, with his shades of yellows and goldens, of browns and blacks, of everything Kiyoomi never thought he’d pay attention to.

He knew _164_ turned to _165_ as soon as he spotted him walking through the door, the chime of the bell ripping his eyes away from his book. The chime of a bell, so similar to those terrifying wails and sobs he’d gotten so used to hearing, so similar to the tinkling of the colorful tears Kiyoomi couldn’t help but gag. _164_ turned to _165_ and it shouldn’t have made his stomach churn, it shouldn’t have made his fingers tremble, it shouldn’t have knocked the breath out of him, but it did.

They say you feel inexplicable joy when you first meet your soulmate, they say your knees give in from under you and your world suddenly gets brighter. They say you can smell their favorite things, they say you hear silver bells, they say you watch the world unfold before your eyes with sounds you’ve never heard before, with smells and tastes unknown to your senses, they say it glows in the warmth and comfort of your soulmate’s eyes. Kiyoomi didn’t get any of the warmth and comfort. Kiyoomi didn’t get the silver bells or the newfound smells and tastes, didn’t get the sudden brightness that was supposed to envelop them.

Maybe he was broken.

Or maybe it was because Atsumu was.

He doesn’t reply, shrugging as he takes another sip and rolling his eyes dramatically before a smirk pops up on his face. It’s not like Kiyoomi doesn’t enjoy having him around, like he doesn’t care or like he’d be better off if they hadn’t met in the first place (although he does wonder about that sometimes), it’s just that it’s hard to look at him and not be momentarily blinded by the bright smiles and burned by the warm eyes that look up expectantly. It’s not like Kiyoomi doesn’t _like_ him, it’s just that he doesn’t know how to deal with someone as easy-going as Miya Atsumu and things get progressively harder when he’s this close, when he touches the bandages and asks if he has some kind of weird scar he doesn’t want people to see.

And he says _yes, I do_ because there’s nothing else he could’ve said, not when _163_ turned to _164_ and _164_ turned to _165_ , not when his counter chose to like this guy, to count the many, many times they meet just for the sake of it. And it’s fine, Kiyoomi tells himself, he’ll be fine if Atsumu continues to believe he’s one of those people who got into fights and ended up scarred for life, he’ll be fine if Atsumu gives up on trying to peek under his bandages.

But that’s not easy.

“How’s the research going?”

Kiyoomi shrugs. “It’s… going?”, because there’s nothing else he can say.

“Still won’t tell me what it’s about, huh…”

_Of course not_ , he wants to say. _Because it’s not supposed to be something you talk about, the painful tears and the colorless world you’re left with. It’s something that shouldn’t happen, but it does, something that happens with unsuspecting teenagers who just want to savor every little good thing about the butterflies in their stomachs and the sweetness of the shared drinks, of laughter and soft kisses. It’s something I’ve seen happening, something that reduces a person to a mere shell, a ghost of what they were before they fell too hard, before they jumped off a cliff without a parachute, unsuspecting of the fall._

He doesn’t say anything.

Atsumu doesn’t inquire further, settling for a dramatic sigh before throwing his whole body back onto his chair. Kiyoomi takes every chance he gets, his eyes rapidly scanning every single inch of his face, from the blinding bright yellow of his hair to the soft hazel shades swirling inside his eyes. He watches the way his lips curl around the tip of his cup and the way he licks them after gulping down his coffee. He watches him arching an eyebrow, watches as he rests his elbows on his thighs, watches as he tilts his head to the side and winks at him.

“Gross,” is what Kiyoomi says, finally.

Because it is. Not him, but the way Kiyoomi’s heart clenches painfully inside his chest, the way his eyes widen and his throat closes in on itself, the way his nails dig into his palms as soon as his brain registers that there’s this unfairly attractive man in front of him, smiling at him, making his counter malfunction because Kiyoomi’s already heard the stories of the people who never found their soulmates, the people who just so happened to suffer from the horrible love diseases because their soulmates weren’t made for them. Atsumu doesn’t have a counter, doesn’t have a soulmate and Kiyoomi forces himself to believe the numbers increasing in his own counter is nothing more than a mere malfunction.

Science can be wrong sometimes, he thinks. Once upon a time, he had been panicking, the adrenaline flooding his veins molded by the unholy fear aroused by scientific superstitions that one in every five people would eventually develop a love disease, that he might be part of the 30% of people that never even got to cross paths with his soulmate, or even worse: that he might be part of the unfortunate group that just so happened to have the loneliest fate ever, to have their soulmates meant for somebody else. Once upon a time, he cried.

There is no disputing the accurate, scientific facts that surround the mysterious system they live in, sure, he knows that. At the same time, however, if only someone could ignore these facts completely, they lose all possible connection with oneself and become nothing more than vanishing ghosts of science in a microscopic world no one knows about. Now, Kiyoomi chooses not to care, to wipe away every trace of uneasiness brought by his malfunctioning counter and live his life as if he never had one in the first place.

And yet.

_164_ , it screamed at him this morning.

_165_ , it’ll scream again when he takes off his bandages.

He wonders what Atsumu must feel like, having bare wrists and no responsibilities towards someone he doesn’t even know. He wonders how freeing it must be, to not have your whole life decided before you can even open your eyes, to be allowed to love and develop feelings without ever feeling the need to explain yourself to the person you’re supposed to spend the rest of your life with. He wonders, because there’s nothing else he can do.

_165_ itches under his bandages.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, nineteen, wants to carve out his counter with his fingernails. Sakusa Kiyoomi, nineteen, hates how imprisoning it feels under his skin, pulsing with every second he spends sitting in front of the most annoyingly handsome man he’s ever seen in his life. Sakusa Kiyoomi, nineteen, wholeheartedly believes that his trembling fingers and shortness of breath are merely a consequence of his sleepless nights, of the fatigue that weighs down on his shoulders, that makes his eyelids heavy and his brain slower. Sakusa Kiyoomi, nineteen, is oblivious and prefers to remain that way.

“Say,” Atsumu speaks up again as he plays with his nearly empty cup. “Have ya ever heard of love diseases?”

_Who hasn’t?_ , is what Kiyoomi wants to ask him.

_My cousin had one_ , is what Kiyoomi wants to say.

_He had the Star Tears_ , is what Kiyoomi wants to say.

_He can’t see anything but a few shades of lilac and red_ , is what Kiyoomi wants to say.

But he doesn’t, settling for a coy nod as he picks up his own cup from the table. It’s lukewarm now, he notices as the sweet coffee floods his mouth, and he can’t help but gag before allowing it to slide down his throat. The aftertaste is terrible and he has to force himself not to wince, not to stick his tongue out and make a fool of himself. Atsumu is not paying attention to him, though, still staring at his cup as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. He looks like he has a film over his eyes, like everything is blurry and he can’t see anything other than his own hands, other than his own hopelessness as he stares down, down, down, burning holes into the table, not even once daring to look up at Kiyoomi.

“Which one?” is what Kiyoomi asks when he finally gathers enough courage to speak up.

When Atsumu lifts up his head, though, Kiyoomi wishes he hadn’t said anything – because hope is suddenly poured all over him, his eyes almost sparkle, his mouth hanging open in a silent plea and he’s inching closer, closer, closer, a lot closer than Kiyoomi would’ve found comfortable but he can’t breathe and he can’t speak and Atsumu is definitely too much for him to handle, he thinks. Kiyoomi can almost hear his voice asking for everything he knows, everything he has to give, and he would’ve done just that if it hadn’t been for the knot settled in the middle of his throat, thrashing around and scratching his windpipe whenever he tried to gulp it down.

_165_ screams at him when Atsumu smiles.

It’s like all the breath has been knocked out of him (again) when hazel eyes pierce his own, when Atsumu licks his lips once and then twice and time seems to have stopped, the film now covering his own eyes and he can no longer see anything but the man sitting in front of him with his stupidly attractive face and stupid eyes and stupid mouth and everything that makes Kiyoomi’s heart feel like it’s on the brink of an explosion all the time. Time swirls around them and Kiyoomi isn’t even sure how long they’ve been staring at each other, if it had been mere seconds or five minutes, if it had been a good ten minutes or maybe three hours, before Atsumu clears his throat and he’s suddenly pulled back to reality.

Talk about immersing yourself on someone else’s eyes, Kiyoomi thinks.

“I’m sorry, did you say anything?” Kiyoomi asks with a choked voice and a shake of his head.

Atsumu grins. “See somethin’ ya like, Omi?”

“Gross.” He says again.

“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu waves his hands up in the air in dismissal. “I know that already, ya don’t have to keep reminding me all the time. I asked about the love diseases, the whole flower vomiting and weird tears.”

“Don’t say it like that.” Kiyoomi winces.

For a second or maybe an hour, Atsumu doesn’t say anything back. It’s like the machinery inside his brain stopped working, as if his cells are desperately looking for a meaning to Kiyoomi’s words, to his reactions, to the dark veil that fell over his eyes for that split-second, to the way the color was drained from his cheeks. And when Atsumu’s expression lights up again, Kiyoomi is almost scared of what he came up with, tucking his hands under his thighs and digging his nails into the soft cushions of the café’s chair.

Atsumu, on the other hand, only smiles at him. “I’m sorry,” he says. “That was rude of me.”

It was, but Kiyoomi doesn’t say anything back.

It was, but he doesn’t have the strength to come up with an answer that requires more than a swift nod and maybe a single second of eye contact because his heart feels like it’s been crushed inside his chest and Kiyoomi can’t think about anything other than the way Atsumu is looking at him, looking for any sight of discomfort on his features, and the wails at the back of his mind, the sobs and the desperate screams he got so used to hearing late at night, the sound of fingernails ripping someone’s flesh and blood dripping onto the floor, the horrible mix of a soft tinkle with the constant stream of bloody tears falling from gentle eyes.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, nineteen, now has three things on his mind.

The first one is his extensive research on the star tears, on their colorful and sparkling stones, on the explosion and yet absence of color, on everything that’s engraved into his brain like a rerun of the world’s most terrible horror film. It doesn’t have a cure, you’ll forever be scarred by the unrequited love that took even the ability to see colors from you. It makes you lose yourself, scratching and pinching in hopes of feeling anything but the constant and stubborn pain inside your chest, the sting in your eyes and whatever other kind of misfortune it brought along with its incessant tinkling.

The second one is the guy sitting in front of him, eyes warm and inviting, staring at him as if Kiyoomi’s the most wonderful sight in the whole wide world. He doesn’t look away, he doesn’t roll his eyes, he just stares. He doesn’t say anything, but the look on his face says it for him. He wants help to understand something Kiyoomi’s been trying to piece together like an absurdly difficult, ten-thousand-piece puzzle for the last couple of months.

And the third, well. There’s an echo in the back of his mind, the cries and sobs and everything else he can’t ever forget. There’s the screams of agony and wheezes of pain, the sniffs and muffled sounds because _I’m sorry, I didn’t want to wake you up._ The thousands of nights he spent holding a shaky figure and watching as blood dripped down along with pinks and blues, a purple so terrifying Kiyoomi doesn’t even remember its exact shade anymore.

“My brother started crying blue.” He says.

Kiyoomi widens his eyes and looks up at Atsumu with his mouth hanging open.

“He said he was okay, that the fact that his counter started to count up didn’t have anything to do with it,” he chuckles. “But we’ve always been together, even before we were born. I know him better than he knows himself. What’cha think, Omi?”

He clears his throat before choking out a simple: “Star Tears.”

Atsumu hums, nodding. He looks up to the ceiling and then down to his hands, his fingers fidgeting with the loose strands of his jeans, with everything he can touch. He furrows his brows and bites his bottom lip and for a second Kiyoomi thinks he’ll even start crying (he doesn’t). When he finally looks up at Kiyoomi again, his eyes are darker and his lips are red, his face is covered in an undecipherable cloak that makes uneasiness flood the pit of his stomach, spreading all throughout his veins and making him shudder.

“It haunts my dreams now, that damned tinkling,” he says. “And it looks like it hurts.”

Kiyoomi nods. “I know what it’s like.”

If Atsumu noticed the way his voice trembled, the way his eyes teared up and his cheeks suddenly lost all color, he didn’t say anything. Instead, all he did was smile knowingly as he threw his body back onto his chair once again, letting his head drop and closing his eyes. Maybe, Kiyoomi thinks, just maybe, it’s okay that his counter took a liking to this giant man who seemed to hold the sun in his features, blinding and malicious yet warm and inviting. Maybe, he adds once again, because he’s also kind of a jerk and somewhat annoying when he starts clinging to him and calling him nicknames he never even wanted in the first place.

Maybe.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, nineteen, now has only two things on his mind.

The first is the way Atsumu nodded oh, so softly before rising to his feet and reaching out to him with a sweet smile on his face, drowning the frown completely before quite literally insulting him with a _no offense, Omi, but ya look like shit_. Kiyoomi pretended he didn’t hear the condescending tone under his forced chuckle as he batted Atsumu’s hand away, as he pretended to be hurt with a dramatic sigh, as he looked around the café one more time before wrapping one arm around Kiyoomi’s shoulders with a _I can take ya home. Or the closest possible without looking like a freak that just wants to find out where ya live. Or something like that._

Kiyoomi let him.

The second is how, as soon as he closed the door and allowed his knees to finally give in from under him, he felt it. There’s this itch right behind his eyes he can’t seem to get rid of. He doesn’t know where it’s coming from or why it’s happening.

_165_ , his counter tells him.

Kiyoomi smiles.

* * *

**love**

**/ləv/**

**_noun_ ** _. 1. an intense feeling of deep affection._

_2\. a great interest and pleasure in something._

**_verb_ ** _. 1. feel deep affection (for someone)._

_2\. like or enjoy (something) very much._

The library is usually the quietest during lunch, forgotten books by the edges of the tables and unorganized chairs left in the middle of the halls. The stacks drown the voices coming from the outside, drown every single thing that’s not the constant influx of words and new meanings, of scenarios and characters you can’t help but fall in love with at some point. Ironic, Kiyoomi thinks, that he’s trying to understand the horrendous part of love, the part the dictionaries, articles and novels never tell you about. He wants to know the reason why people fall ill, the reason why people cease to be themselves, giving everything they have to a feeling that’ll eventually leave them gasping for air as it suffocates, that’ll leave them with bloodshot eyes and runny noses and every painful feeling there is. Even more ironic, he thinks, is the way the person in front of him seems to have been dragged out of a romance novel with his warm, inviting eyes and annoyingly beautiful face.

Not that Kiyoomi’s paying attention to that, he’s not.

(But he is.)

There are a few whispers coming from students hunched over their textbooks, light giggles and the shushing that usually came along with them. There are people clicking their tongues when something doesn’t make sense, there are the exasperated sighs and heads thumping against the wood in defeat. Kiyoomi knows these things all too well, knows what it’s like to crack your skull open trying to understand a concept, an idea, everything that should’ve been making sense but it didn’t, leaving him exhausted and unable to think about anything other than that single phrase that just so happened to not click with the rest.

And then there’s Miya Atsumu.

He’s sitting in front of him as he usually does, teeth biting into his bottom lip and brows furrowed in concentration as his eyes scan the old book in front of him. He’s bouncing one of his legs, his knee awkwardly bumping against the table every couple of seconds with an exceptionally loud _thump_ and Kiyoomi could almost hear his thoughts as he clicked his tongue and shoved yet another book away from him. _Been there, done that_ is what he thinks as he eyes the mountain of books Atsumu casted aside after hours of careful examination in hopes they had the one thing they were looking for. They never did.

“So, Star Tears,” Atsumu whispers. “Is that what you’ve been researching all this time?”

Kiyoomi can’t help but grin behind his facemask, resting his elbows on the table and letting his head drop to the side. “You’re not very smart, are you?”

Atsumu blinks at him once and then twice before grinning himself, shaking his head and throwing his body back onto his chair before exaggeratedly stretching out his arms on top of his head, closing his eyes and letting a soft groan roam free between them. In the quiet library, it sounds way louder than it should have and a couple of heads turn to them with thousands of question marks floating above them.

“Have ya had it?”

Kiyoomi freezes.

Because of course that’s the first thing someone would think, because of course that’s the first thing _Atsumu_ would think as he looks at Kiyoomi through long, dark lashes, as he wipes off the frown from his face and takes on an apologetic expression as if he knows everything. Of course he would, Kiyoomi thinks, because that’s the kind of person he is. He’s warm and inviting, _sure_ , but also kind of rough around the edges, cautious yet reckless at times, snarky but sweet.

When Kiyoomi laughs softly, though, Atsumu frowns again.

“My cousin did,” is what Kiyoomi tells him as he shakes his head. “He can only see two or three shades of color now. It ruined him completely. He had nightmares and woke me up with wails and sobs and, well. I’m trying to find a cure for him.”

Atsumu hums. “Well,” he sighs. “No specialist has ever found it in all these years, though. What makes ya think yer the one who will?”

_Everything_ , Kiyoomi almost tells him.

The fact that he was jolted awake by animalistic wails and grunts, the fact that Motoya begged him for release, begged him for something as simple as sleep because the tears were involuntary and relentless, never seeming to let him catch a break. The fact that it hurt him to watch how his cousin picked up his stars and kept them so close to his bed, the fact that he stared longingly at them in so many of those sleepless nights, a tired smile playing around with his chapped, bruised lips as he sighed over and over again in a futile attempt of calming down his pounding heart. The fact that now he doesn’t understand why he keeps so many gray rocks on his shelf, why he can’t seem to get rid of them no matter how weird they are and why everything seems to be so dull.

“Maybe they haven’t looked into it enough,” Kiyoomi tells him. “Maybe they don’t have anyone they love being _this close_ to carving out their own eyes with their bare hands. Maybe they just don’t care enough? I don’t know. It’s not a deadly disease and you can’t just remove someone’s tear ducts the way they remove the flowers when someone starts to grow them.”

Atsumu nods. “Yer very passionate about it, then.”

“It’s kind of like that when you see someone you care about suffering this much,” Kiyoomi sighs, letting his own body fall back onto his chair. He’s no longer looking at Atsumu, staring at his own hands resting on his lap instead. “It’s kind of like that when they look at you wondering if the sky they’re seeing is really supposed to be this dull, this gray, because the books mention a color they can never see again.”

“Right.” Atsumu gulps.

It’s not like Kiyoomi was purposely trying to make the situation scarier than it needed to be because he wasn’t and, even if he was, he wonders if Atsumu didn’t already feel the dread when he heard the tinkling sounds and the persistent stream from the tears, the soft _thud_ they made when they hit the ground, the choked sobs and wails and everything else Kiyoomi had grown so used to ever since the first shooting star had emerged from Motoya’s eyes in all of its orange glory, forever staining his carpet and mind.

And if Atsumu noticed the way he shivered as soon as the last syllable left his mouth, he didn’t mention it, didn’t dare to look up and stare at him like he used to do so many times before. _Perhaps_ , Kiyoomi thinks, _he knows it better than I do. Perhaps it’s like witnessing an alternate universe where you’re the one who’s suffering_ , he thinks, _because the one who’s in pain has the same face as yours._

“What did ya find out?” Atsumu asks, finally.

Kiyoomi sighs. “Nothing besides the unrequited love bullshit we all know. You weep and let out star-shaped, solid tears in colors that apparently mean a lot to both of you? Something that reminds you of them or something like that.”

“So… no cure, right?”

“Apparently not,” Kiyoomi clicks his tongue. “I did find this article about a possible, and I quote, cure that comes if the reason for your tears dies. Although I’m not so sure how that works since there’s no correlation about someone simply throwing their feelings away when someone dies.”

Atsumu chuckles quietly, resting one of his elbows on the table. “Maybe it’s the fucked up universe who throws them out. Or at least makes the grieving process a tad bit more bearable than it would’ve been had ya not been crying literal stones.”

“You do have a point.” He snorts.

And they talk.

Atsumu asks questions and Kiyoomi replies with what he’s found out: the color schemes and the photoreceptors that get duller and duller the more you cry, the involuntary tears and the pain that comes with them, the itching and the burns, the nightmares and the memory loss. He talks about Motoya and how he doesn’t even remember when he started crying, he doesn’t remember what color his eyes are – not that it would’ve mattered, considering the fact that he can no longer see blacks and browns. Kiyoomi tells him about the night he scratched his face so hard blood started pouring out as he screamed and yelped, as Kiyoomi tried to hold his wrists down, as he tried not to stain their clothes or the already stained carpet, about how Motoya pleaded with him to _just let me die_. Kiyoomi tells him about his own nightmares, the terrifying tinkles and sobs, the shooting stars he couldn’t help but dread, the fact that the night sky scared him to death ever since he was fifteen.

Atsumu listens.

He doesn’t make fun of Kiyoomi’s nightmares – he tells him he’s had some nightmares himself. He tells him it usually starts with the two of them, Atsumu and his twin, and they’re standing on the top of a hill. It’s dark and the stars shine on top of them, stretching out endlessly on the midnight sky. He tells him about the empty slots that stare back at him, the empty slots that settle where his twin’s eyes are supposed to be, about the rainbow waterfalls that flow smoothly down pale cheeks, about the creepy smile he shoots at him and everything turns into a blur because he’s being choked and dragged along and his own eyes hurt. In the dream, Atsumu tells him, he looks down in panic when he feels something dripping down and he realizes he’s been crying colors, too. That’s usually when he wakes up.

Kiyoomi doesn’t answer, only managing to nod slowly at him. Atsumu’s hands are shaking, he notices. He tries to look away, to the group of people gathering inside the library again and Kiyoomi can’t help but be a little disappointed for some reason or another. There’s a familiar itch behind his eyes now and he tries to blink it away whenever Atsumu looks elsewhere.

“Has he cried anything other than blue?” Kiyoomi asks.

“No,” Atsumu replies in a whisper. “But he’s been crying more.”

“Can he still see the blue in the sky?”

“He said he can,” he shrugs. “And he’ll only lose the ability to see a certain color when he starts crying other shades, right?”

“I don’t know,” Kiyoomi admits. “That’s what happened to my cousin.”

Like an antsy researcher, Atsumu picks up a few of the papers and opens yet another book from the pile Kiyoomi had brought over. His eyes start scanning the pages as if his own life depended on it, as if that was the sole purpose of his existence and Kiyoomi couldn’t help but think that it might as well be – because in this moment he doubts there’s anything more important to him than an unknown cure to a love disease that kills without really killing, that takes away even the smallest joys and turns life into this bleak, colorless canvas without ever giving you the opportunity to touch a paintbrush and experiment.

And Kiyoomi watches him for an hour or two before getting up without making a sound, grabbing one of the pens they had scattered around earlier and scribbling a small note that said _I’ll leave those in your care. You know where to find me when you feel like giving those back._ He takes one last look at him before turning away and walking towards the exit.

(He did turn around a few times to see if Atsumu noticed he was gone.)

(He didn’t.)

**resplendent**

**/rəˈsplendənt/**

**_adjective_ ** _. attractive and impressive through being richly colorful or sumptuous._

Sakusa Kiyoomi, nineteen, is not a man who falls ill often.

He’s a ridiculously healthy, overly-cautious person with a very strong immune system, thank you very much. He can probably count on one hand how many times he’s been sick all throughout his life, from the common colds to the more complex, weird diseases he probably spent way too much time researching and memorizing every single symptom _just to be prepared_ , is what he used to say when someone caught him writing them down.

The point is that he doesn’t get sick, not ever since he started living on his own.

Headaches, though? He gets plenty of those. From the moment he wakes up to the moment when he lies down at night, his head swoons with that prickly, persistent thumping that sometimes makes him scream in the middle of the night, all alone in his room. Ibuprofen has been a loyal companion these last few months, on those sleepless nights and tired mornings as he downed a few tablets along with his coffee.

That’s why, Kiyoomi tells himself, he’s hunched over his bathroom sink, gripping the marble so hard he thinks he’ll break his nails. He has his eyes shut tight, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream as he tries to steady himself, to make himself forget the sting, the burn behind his eyes, the thumping in his head and the fact that his throat is now trying to close in on itself, trying to suffocate him for absolutely no reason at all.

_176_ is reflected in the mirror.

When it reaches his ear, the dreaded tinkling sound, Kiyoomi thinks he’s going to faint. When it gets louder and he feels something warm sliding down his cheeks, he thinks his heart stopped for maybe a second or two or maybe thirty. When he forces himself to open his eyes, knees bucking as they suddenly become incapable of supporting his weight, to finally look at himself in the mirror, he’s met with the most terrifying image he’s ever seen in his entire life. There are soft _thuds_ as solid, heavy stars fall from his eyes and hit the sink, flowing down the drain as if that’s what they were meant to do all along.

Kiyoomi takes a step back.

And then another.

His back hits the door.

He touches the knob with shaky fingers.

He takes a deep breath.

And he runs.

He runs out of the bathroom, not even managing to get to his bed before collapsing on the floor, knees hitting the carpet with a soft _thud_ , electricity flowing everywhere, shocking him and making it seem like he was on the verge of collapsing, of bursting into flames and, _precisely_ , dying the most painful death there is, clutching at his own chest, crying solid tears and effortlessly trying to carve out his own eyes with the tip of his shaky fingers before it slowly consumed him. The cold night breeze waltzes inside his room through an open window, carrying water droplets with it, a thunderstorm slowly approaching and Kiyoomi can only think that _ah_ , because what else was he supposed to think?, _the world is crying with me._

The feelings assailing him weren’t of fury or hatred, weren’t feelings of sadness. If they were, he thinks, perhaps the tears wouldn’t have stung this much. There was overpowering fear, a fierce ancestral dread that he couldn’t find the best four or five words to explain. There was a silhouette standing in front of him, the white-clothed goddess that stroked his hair as it snickered, telling him that _you’ve fell for the trap_.

And so, Kiyoomi cries.

_176_ , the counter tells him.

When the first solid tear, tinkling and sparkling, falls down onto his lap, Kiyoomi audibly gasps, the sound echoing through the entire apartment. His eyes hurt like someone had just cut them open, and maybe the goddess had done just that with her long, translucent fingernails. It’s yellow, his first color. It’s the yellow in Atsumu’s hair when he stands just a few steps away from him. It’s the yellow glowing under his skin when he stands under the sun, waving at him with a warm smile on his face. It’s Atsumu, his first tears, through and thorough – and Kiyoomi isn’t sure what to do with this information.

_176_ , the counter tells him again.

The goddess, Kiyoomi thinks, has this kind of thirst that’s never fully quenched, being cruel and dreamy. It’s the most splendid, horribly traitorous kind of thirst, engulfing just about everything it lays its eyes on. Love is cruel like that, Kiyoomi realizes, bringing you the sweetness of a whisper only to take it away from you on a whim. It’s a physical sickness, love. It makes you cry and laugh and sometimes you laugh while crying because it’s impossible to comprehend what’s happening inside, the reasons why your brain suddenly shuts off on its own or why your heart scratches at your ribcage, at your throat as it tries to leave your body.

It’s pretty, is what Kiyoomi thinks when the tinkling stops and a golden star falls over his hands. It’s rough and sharp just like Motoya’s, it’s glowing just like Atsumu’s hair does under the sun, as he scrunches up his nose and laughs, as he calls him in such a sweet, euphonious voice, the way he rolls the syllables of his name around his tongue for more seconds than strictly necessary. It’s sparkly and warm, it’s the way his eyes stare and the way he chuckles when Kiyoomi frowns, it’s everything he means and perhaps even more.

_Fuck_ , he thinks, because what else is he supposed to think?

_Fuck_ , he thinks again as he lets his head drop until his forehead hits the floor, until he’s bent over in a weird, unpleasant way, until his eyes start to itch again and he feels the gold and yellows streaming down his cheeks, tickling his skin as the tinkle reaches his ears again. They solidify, shooting starts falling effortlessly on the carpet, staining the dark cloth with every shade of him. _Fuck_ , he thinks again.

It hurts.

Now he understands why Motoya sobbed the way he did.

It hurts so, so much.

But _ah_ , he thinks. _It’s so pretty._

* * *

**aureate**

**/ˈôrēət,ˈôrēˌāt/**

**_adjective._ ** _denoting, made of, or having the color gold._

_(of language) highly ornamented or elaborate._

Sunlight streams in through half-opened curtains, tiptoeing around the room as if the rays are simply mimicking an old dance, a dance their invisible feet had memorized eons ago. It shines through as he blinks himself back to consciousness, as his eyelids flutter up and down in a futile attempt to drown out the sleepiness, to drown out the haze he’d been put in for the last couple of hours. It’s golden, is what he thinks as soon as he props himself up, rubbing tired, bloodshot eyes with a shaky hand. It’s golden just like the stars he’d wept for hours and hours, his eyes bleeding liquid gold as he covered his face with his hands, as he wrapped his fingers around his own neck, as he struggled to breathe and yet another sob broke through.

It’s golden – just like Atsumu.

His phone rings incessantly by his nightstand and Kiyoomi has to blink once or maybe twice before he finally registers that the sound he’s hearing isn’t coming from his tears. His head pounds in agony when he looks directly into the stream of light shining on his window, his throat closing in and he almost hisses as he quickly looks away to his bed, to the many starry rocks he wept. His phone tells him it’s Atsumu, it’s always him, and that he already called at least eight times in the last thirty minutes.

Perhaps that’s why Kiyoomi woke up with itchy, teary eyes.

And he calls again.

And Kiyoomi refuses his call.

It’s not like he doesn’t _want_ to talk to him, it’s definitely not like that. The bright _176_ is glowing at him in a mocking way as he feels something warm sliding down his cheeks and falling onto his sheets again. His whole bed, clothes and body are now stained in golden droplets as the tinkling starts again, the itch, stretch and burn spreading through his eyes and he can’t help but sob as his phone rings again and again as if it’s merely harmonizing with the tinkle coming from his tears.

Kiyoomi remembers thinking that crying starlight and, well, literal star-shaped stones sounded like a pain in the ass, remembers thinking that Motoya was ridiculous for letting it happen in the first place, not knowing how to move on from someone who would, apparently, never love him back. Kiyoomi remembers thinking that treasuring the very reason for your pain and suffering was stupid, that keeping them was only going to make it worse and yet there he is, gathering all of his ninety golden stars with trembling fingers and furrowed brows as if they were, in fact, pure and sensible gold.

He’s in pain, there’s no denying that.

But he decides that if headaches and the sting in his eyes is all he’ll be graced with as his counter slowly counts up and burns with the excitement of seeing him again and again and again, Kiyoomi decides he’ll drink it up until there’s nothing left to grasp at but his own chest, digging his nails deep inside his flesh and grabbing his own beating, suffering heart that aches with a desire unknown to him up until this point, a desire he’ll never allow himself to voice, a desire that’ll slowly consume him and leave nothing but the golden star tears behind. It hurts and hurts and hurts and Kiyoomi drinks it all up, his mouth a mere tunnel for the wails and sobs that come along with the image of golden features, of a god Kiyoomi won’t ever be able to touch without breaking down to his very foundation, with the sound of his voice and the soft chuckles he lets out whenever Kiyoomi pouts, whenever he furrows his brows and the sweet drip of his good mornings, the deliciously warm side glances and coy smiles. He’ll drink it up, he’ll have everything Atsumu has to offer even if he loses himself in the middle.

He’s already losing, Kiyoomi thinks with a bitter chuckle as yet another star drips down from his eyes with another annoyingly beautiful tinkle, the warmth of the gold sliding down his cheeks again and again.

For a second or maybe two or three, Kiyoomi wonders which shade of his yellows he’s crying. He wonders if it’s the one that swirls around the corner of his eyes or if it’s the one right in the middle. It could also be one of the thousands in his hair, probably the one further back, where most people can’t see the lousy job he did when bleaching. And then he thinks of the way his skin glows under the sun, the way it looks like he’s actually sparkling like he’s a character pulled out of a supernatural novel.

It’s a pretty scene, Kiyoomi thinks, a beautiful galaxy made out of white crumpled sheets and the golden-yellow starlight that follows tiny bright stars. Kiyoomi can only think that even stars fall when they get tired, a tail of flaming desire propelling their flight, their free-fall, and maybe that’s the reason why Kiyoomi had started to cry them, too. His heart was heavy, his shoulders were tense and he’d been loving silently for a bit too long, three whole years of pining and not really understanding why his chest was heavy at the end of the day, his counter slowly but steadily adding up his encounters with someone he was sure he’d never come to love. Well, he did. And his heart wasn’t strong enough to hold the feeling on its own, his muscles aching and lungs about to burst as they filled with nothingness and yearning for an aureate handprint. It never came – and so he wept.

Atsumu is a force to be reckoned with, he’s come to know in these three agonizingly long years. Whatever Atsumu wants, Atsumu gets and that includes Kiyoomi’s heart, apparently. Not that he actively wanted it, not that he ever mentioned it or even talked about these things with him. Not that he would ever want him, if Kiyoomi’s being honest, because surely he could do much, much better than him. Not that he would’ve ever looked at him as if he was something precious, something he’d want to cherish and Kiyoomi is fine with that. What he curses is his own foolish, naïve heart for letting itself fall from the tallest cliff, for letting itself crumble and shatter and everything in-between because now Kiyoomi has no other choice, has no means to escape the dreaded waterfall, the dreaded tinkling and soft sparkles coming from stars he’s producing in all of his pain and love and suffering because he can’t have one without the other, he learns.

He can’t have Atsumu.

And _yet_ –

Yet, Atsumu is calling him again. He’s called twelve times now with a few texts on top, telling him _good morning, Omi. I need to talk to you. I see you’re reading my texts, pick up my calls too. Are you purposely ignoring me? I can see you’re reading what I send you. Stop being an ass and pick up my calls._

Kiyoomi laughs and, finally, the tinkling stops.

“What do you want?”, is the first thing he says when he picks up.

Atsumu giggles. “Ya sound cranky, Omi. Did ya not sleep well?”

If only he knew, Kiyoomi thinks, that he’d been clutching desperately at his own chest, crying his eyes out as he rubbed them one and then maybe five hundred times trying to get rid of the itch, of the ache, the burn, and to no avail because the waves of his suffering kept crashing onto him and making him fall off his bed again and again, staining his clothes and his sheets and his carpet and his skin with the raw imagery of Atsumu’s hair, of his eyes and face, of everything Kiyoomi had associated with him, of everything he sees when he looks at sweet, warm eyes and hears his voice ringing in his ears.

He doesn’t tell him that, obviously. “I slept fine,” he lies. “Why are you calling me?”

“I thought ya liked listening to my beautiful voice, Omi?”

_Yes, I do._ “In your dreams, Miya.”

“Oh, so we’re back to Miya…” Atsumu sighs. “Ya left a few books with me the other day, I figured I’d give ‘em back to ya today. What’cha say, Omi? Can I take ya out for lunch?”

Kiyoomi thinks about it.

He actually does – he thinks about his hair smoothly moving along with the breeze and the way Atsumu bites his bottom lip after cracking another one of his bad jokes. He thinks about his hands and how soft they’d be when they accidentally brushed his own, the way Atsumu jumped and apologized immediately, waving his hands up in the air as if Kiyoomi was pointing a gun at him. He thinks about his smiles and the soft sparkling in his eyes when Kiyoomi called him by his first name.

And he weeps again, a bigger star falling from his eyes this time.

“I can’t,” he lies. “I have a lot to do at home today.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Atsumu tells him. “I can cook!”

_I don’t want you to come_ , Kiyoomi almost tells him.

_I don’t want to see you_ , Kiyoomi almost tells him.

_I don’t want you to see me_ , Kiyoomi almost tells him.

“Okay,” is what he actually says. “Be here around noon.”

Kiyoomi pretends Atsumu’s laugh didn’t just make his tear ducts fully functional again, pretends that he’s not in pain when they hang up, when he stares down at his own trembling hands, when he looks around his room and sees the golden patches on his floor, a golden handprint on his door and the mess of shining rocks and puddles Kiyoomi would have to take care of soon enough and everything he can think of is _fuck, fuck, fuck_ because what else is he supposed to think?, what else is he supposed to _feel_ but immense dread and panic when the mere thought of Atsumu coming over and seeing this mess that screams his name in all its vibrant tones is all Kiyoomi can think about?

So he gets up and mutters a low curse word before picking up the stars he cried and holding them close to his chest. They’re sharp and cold and honestly kind of rough, but they’re a perfect match to Atsumu’s eyes and so Kiyoomi thinks that he wouldn’t mind having those in a jar somewhere around his room. Just not today – and probably somewhere it’d be easy to hide if Atsumu ever decides to come over again.

He stares at his own mess before sighing again. _Now to clean up this mess_ , he thinks.

**beautiful**

**/ˈbyo͞odəfəl/**

**_adjective._ ** _1\. pleasing the senses or mind aesthetically._

_2\. of a very high standard; excellent._

As it turns out, Atsumu is actually a great cook – or, at least, a much better than Kiyoomi himself. Kiyoomi watched him as he mixed all the things he never even bothered to learn the names of into a pan, stirring endlessly as he talked about his brother and how he didn’t stay up all night sobbing and they actually got some quality hours of sleep. Kiyoomi watched him as he smiled and joked and played around, hissing when the sauce started to boil, when a drop jumped out straight into his arms, into his chest and literally everywhere else it could reach. Kiyoomi couldn’t even laugh, wondering if Atsumu would have the same response if he was the one throwing himself at him.

As it turns out, Atsumu really did just want to give him his books back.

And as it turns out, Kiyoomi’s situation is a bit more complicated than he originally thought. His eyes burn with the prospect of the unshed tears and he can almost hear the tinkling at the back of his mind, the promise of a shooting star or maybe a thousand, mimicking the perfect shade of an eye Kiyoomi couldn’t really see anymore, his photoreceptors already dulled and almost gray and all because his heart chose to love someone who wouldn’t love him back, because of course he’d fall in love with every little thing about him that would make the small, tinkling, shimmering stars come to life. Because of course Atsumu would make him crumble down oh, so many times before looking straight into his eyes and telling him he’d never had a chance in the first place, so why bother trying?, is what he thinks.

And his answer is _because._

Because Atsumu was so, _so_ beautiful with his sparkling eyes and golden aura, with his soothing voice when he called Kiyoomi’s name in a whisper, with his powerful tone when he’s talking about anything else. Because his fingers touch his hair and his heartstrings like they’re so easily breakable Kiyoomi almost believes he is. Because his smile takes on so many different faces and Kiyoomi has seen every single one of them, even the ones he gives to those who truly matter, the ones he’s not scared to open up to and Kiyoomi thinks that’s why he truly fell for him.

Because Atsumu laughs with his whole being, scrunching up his nose and throwing his head back, exposing the golden skin on his neck, as he clutches his stomach and shakes his head again and again as he wheezes and pleads for mercy. Because his eyes are the brightest of the bright, exposing every little thing about him, almost like he’s–

“Omi-kun?”

–this intricate piece of art made with so many shades of the same old and boring yellow that somehow blended together to build up such an ethereal, otherworldly god Kiyoomi couldn’t even begin to–

“Is everything okay?”

Kiyoomi jumps.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” he gulps. “Why?”

Atsumu chuckles. “Staring is a bit rude, didn’t anyone ever tell ya that?”

He opens his mouth, once and then twice, shutting it closed again in a straight line as he does his best to smile, as he tries to shove the tears away, somewhere so deep inside they’d never find their way back to the surface ever again. But of course it doesn’t work that way, Kiyoomi thinks as he feels the slow but steady pace of the golden waterfalls, as he starts to hear the tinkling again and watches as Atsumu widens his eyes in shock or disgust or literally anything else because Kiyoomi couldn’t care less now.

His legs are jelly, his head is spinning and his eyes are burning. He has no strength left so he just lets the stars fall, he lets the sobs wreck him and the tears stain his clothes once more as he looks elsewhere, at anything other than _him_ because he can’t stand the pity that crosses his features, that reaches out to him when Atsumu hands him a napkin for him to dry his own tears. Kiyoomi can’t stand himself, if he’s being honest, for allowing such a feeling to grow this much, to plant its seeds in his heart and choke him with its buds.

“When did that start?” Atsumu asks.

When Kiyoomi doesn’t reply, he tries again. “When were ya going to tell me?”

“Why would I tell you?”, is what Kiyoomi replies, a fake chuckle escaping his lips.

“Because I’m yer friend,” he says. “And it looks like it hurts.”

“It does,” Kiyoomi tells him. “And the tears just won’t stop. I had to change my sheets three times today because the stains won’t come off, because I can’t help but cry and the tinkling is driving me fucking insane.”

Atsumu nods, frowning and tilting his head. “So that’s why ya didn’t want to see me.”

“Among other things,” Kiyoomi nods. “You don’t have to worry about me. You have your brother to take care of. How is he coping with his blue stars?”

“Omi,” Atsumu calls in a soft, low, sweet tone and Kiyoomi can’t help the next four or five stars that fall down without his consent, a cascade of liquid gold falling from his eyes and staining his clothes. “Don’t act so tough.”

“I’m not.” He lies.

“Who is it for?”

If he knew, Kiyoomi thinks, he’d surely bolt out and never look back, he’d laugh and snicker and shake his head and _leave_ and Kiyoomi didn’t want any of that. So he takes a deep breath and he closes his eyes, the tinkling echoing in his head, the sound of his tears begging for release, the sound of the stream he’d never forget, the sound of his voice _oh, so sweet_ , so agonizingly soft Kiyoomi couldn’t help but clench his fists and dig his nails into his palms until blood started pouring out, his hands sticky with crimson and gold and everything that screamed agony and _Atsumu_ and pain and _Atsumu, Atsumu, Atsumu_ because it would always be him.

If he knew, Kiyoomi thinks, he’d blind him, he’d vanish from his memories in an instant.

If he knew, he wouldn’t be here anymore.

Kiyoomi, on the other hand, is ready to bleed and break, crash and burn for him, for the safety and warmth inside his eyes and the security of his voice. He’s ready to throw away everything he is for a single portion of whatever Atsumu means because love works in mysterious ways and the goddess of love has nothing but mischievous, cruel hands and she can’t help but want to carve out someone’s heart and bit it as it takes its last couple of beats. Kiyoomi doesn’t mind, he’ll gladly give Atsumu everything he has, everything he is and maybe even a bit more than that.

“You don’t know them,” is what Kiyoomi replies. “It’s not important.”

Atsumu’s muscles seem to relax and Kiyoomi almost faints when a particularly big star makes its way out, as it pushes his eye and scratches it so hard he thinks he’s bleeding. He wipes his cheeks with his uninjured hand, catching a mess of gold and sweat and maybe a bright yellow in the middle of his palm, closing his eyes again and allowing himself to take a deep breath before the tinkling starts, before it breaks his lips apart with a sob and a wail and then makes him fall down to his knees again and again and again.

He watches as Atsumu plays with his fork, with the rest of the food in his plate, watches as he casts it aside to look at him, at the mess coming from his eyes and the amount of shiny stars that are now falling onto the table with soft _thumps_ and _thuds_. Atsumu frowns once and then twice, reaching forward to grab one of the stones and hesitating once his fingers reach them. He halts and looks at Kiyoomi once and then twice and maybe five times, eyes rolling from the golden droplets to him and to the droplets again.

Kiyoomi almost laughs.

_They’re not going to hurt you_ , he wants to say, _I’m the only one they’ll hurt._

_They’ll shine and entertain you_ , he wants to say, _while I’m breaking apart._

He doesn’t say anything, just watches Atsumu’s every move with childish curiosity to see what he’s going to do, if he’s going to say anything, if he’ll finally realize that Kiyoomi’s been paying attention to him all this time. But Atsumu doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look away from the starry stones, doesn’t clear his throat, doesn’t do anything. Atsumu stares and stares and stares until Kiyoomi feels like he’s on the verge of tears himself and he almost laughs – at himself, at Atsumu, at the situation, he no longer knows.

“We’ll keep researching,” is what Atsumu tells him. “We’ll cure you both.”

Kiyoomi wants to cry, the itch in his eyes almost unbearable. He wants to fall to his knees and cover his face with his hands and maybe let out the sobs he’d been gulping in ever since Atsumu walked into his house. He wants to cry and let Atsumu see just how terrifying his tinkling is, just how abnormally large his stars are. But he doesn’t. He nods and nods and nods, pretending he’s not feeling the stream crawling down his cheeks, pretending his eyes aren’t about to burst, pretending his heart isn’t shredded by his feet because _of course Kiyoomi would fall for him._ Who wouldn’t?

“Okay,” is what Kiyoomi finally answers. “Yeah, okay.”

Atsumu smiles at him and the only thing Kiyoomi can think of is that _ah. He’s beautiful._

* * *

**pain**

**/pān/**

**_noun._ ** _1\. physical suffering or discomfort caused by illness or injury._

_2\. careful effort; great care or trouble._

**_verb._ ** _cause mental or physical pain to._

So Atsumu believes he’s in love with someone else.

Stars fall past dark lashes and onto the floor with soft _thumps_ and _thuds_ , their books stained at the edges with glittering gold and yellow tones. It should’ve been obvious, Kiyoomi thinks, and yet Atsumu remains painfully oblivious to the fact that Kiyoomi can no longer see the strands of his hair glowing magnificently under the sun, the inviting warmth of his eyes and the way it once felt like a mere look at him would drip sweet, sticky honey down his throat, inebriating his every pore with everything so inherently Atsumu, so characteristically _him_ Kiyoomi was scared to lose himself.

But he can’t see any of those anymore – and perhaps that’s for the best.

He remembers making fun of Motoya for keeping his tears in jars, for decorating his room with the very reason for his pain and suffering and yet, there he was, doing the exact same thing and weeping whenever he lost the ability to tell them apart from each other. He remembers thinking, in all of his twelve-year-old wisdom, that it was easier to not let yourself fall for someone else, it was easier to shut these feelings out as soon as they started to grow, as if they were never there to begin with. Sakusa Kiyoomi, twelve, would probably laugh and scoff at Sakusa Kiyoomi, nineteen, for ever letting his love grow this big, for ever letting this feeling consume him to the point where he had no choice but to weep and sob as the galaxies came crashing down through his eyes, painting an intricate piece of work with his tears and blood and suffering.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, nineteen, would shake his head and laugh softly as another star fell down, as he told Sakusa Kiyoomi, twelve, that maybe the stars weren’t that bad when he could still see the brightness of his smile and have him call his name so dearly and hold him close for a few seconds longer than necessary. Maybe, he thinks, this isn’t all that bad.

“How ‘bout this person here?”

Atsumu is sprawled out on the floor, arms up and eyes focused on the paper he’s holding. He hums and then rolls onto his stomach, head dropping to the side as he stares at Kiyoomi and the tiny yellow pool by his feet. He looks beautiful even when he’s adorned in shades of gray, Kiyoomi thinks, even if he’s no longer golden and warm, even if his face is a mere blur of hazy sepia tones instead of the bright pinks and browns and yellows. As he is, sitting in front of him in a lazy manner, Kiyoomi thinks, Atsumu is but a mere caricature of what he once was. He’s not laughing anymore, a permanent frown on his face and chapped, bloody lips as a consequence of his newest bad habit.

And it might be his fault, Kiyoomi thinks.

If only Atsumu hadn’t seen his tears, hadn’t seen his stars and the mess they made, Atsumu wouldn’t have worried and his life would be perfectly fine. If only he hadn’t spent the last two or three weeks, Kiyoomi can’t even remember that anymore, shut inside with him and with his brother, both weeping and wailing and dirtying everything with the reminders of a love they won’t ever get to experience, if only that hadn’t happened…

“What about it?” Kiyoomi asks with a sniffle.

Atsumu gulps. “They said they started seeing color again,” he explains. “After they confessed properly and had their feelings returned, apparently there’s a small chance of the colors coming back without their loved one dying.”

“If?” Kiyoomi asks.

“If they love ya back with the same intensity. Or something like that.”

_Great_ , Kiyoomi thinks. _That’s definitely not happening._

He’s munching on the insides of his cheeks, Kiyoomi notices. Atsumu isn’t a talker when he’s nervous, instead directing his attention towards literally anything else, from the chapped paint on Kiyoomi’s walls to the way his stars started to slowly change their tone and shapes, from the stains on his carpet to the way Kiyoomi’s tears fell down with the soft sound of a bell that died out as soon as they dropped from the edge of his chin, free-falling towards the endless abyss until they splattered in an explosion of colors and tinkles, rolling on the floor as if they were crawling towards him. The fact is that Atsumu isn’t a talker when he’s nervous and right now Kiyoomi kind of wishes he was, desperately wishing he’d talk about nothing and everything all at once as if Kiyoomi isn’t about to lose his sight, his memories, his very essence and become an empty shell because of a love that did nothing but consume him whole.

“How’s your brother?”

It’s a stupid question.

Atsumu snorts softly. “He actually found out the guy he’d been pining silently for was his soulmate,” he says while shaking his head, closing his eyes and then sighing. “That stupid asshole. Got me worked up for nothin’. He’s not crying anymore but I still don’t know if he can see blues or purples.”

Kiyoomi nods. “That’s good.”

He pretends he doesn’t have a lump in his throat, pretends his heart isn’t being crushed by warm hands with long, curved fingernails. He pretends the love goddess isn’t mocking him as she stands majestically behind Atsumu, waving and snickering when Kiyoomi flinches, when he looks away, away, away because the mere thought of seeing Atsumu weeping for somebody else is enough to send shivers down his spine, to make his stomach coil and his brain malfunction. No, he thinks, because he’s allowed to be selfish this time, because Atsumu is still here with him, he’s still searching and coming up with new ideas, he’s still here and-

Why is he still here?

“That’s good.” Kiyoomi repeats. “How long has it been since they met for real?”

It’s a silent plea.

Atsumu hums, squinting and rolling onto his back again. “The tears stopped a few days ago.”

“Then why are you still here?”

A plea, Kiyoomi thinks, so silent and masked Atsumu might not hear. A desperate attempt to keep him here, to make him watch, to make him understand just how horrifying it is to be burdened by the tinkling, to be burdened by the thought that even if he’s crying galaxies and painting nebulae on his sheets, his clothes, his skin, burning holes at every surface with the weight of his stars and the love he has nowhere else to pour it in, it’s not enough to be loved in return. Such a cheap, replaceable, fleeting feeling, such a terrifying thing, he once thought, but _ah_ , such warmth, such tenderness, such a delightful, surreal feeling.

Atsumu doesn’t do anything other than blink at him for a few seconds or maybe a few hours, Kiyoomi no longer knows. Time bends over its seconds as if it’s nothing but a contortionist in the middle of a show, bending forward and to the sides, its sneaky fingers never managing to let go of his throat, of his heart, and Kiyoomi huffs and wheezes when it becomes too much. And then Atsumu starts talking.

“Because I’m yer friend,” he says. “And I don’t want ya to live in an empty, bleak, colorless world, Omi.”

“So what if I do?”

Because living in a colorless world didn’t sound all that bad when he could still be around, Kiyoomi thinks, because the tears and the pain didn’t really matter if he still got to cherish his laughter and the warm sensation that spreads across his tummy whenever Atsumu calls his name. Because maybe the colors weren’t really necessary, because maybe Kiyoomi could learn how to love his blacks and whites and every shade of gray that blended so well into the sharp lines of his face, of the soft waves of his hair and the endless swirling in his eyes. Because choosing not to love him was never an option, because Miya Atsumu is just too easy to love and Sakusa Kiyoomi was nothing but a mere puppet being dragged along in this endless road that once glittered with the promise of a happy ending.

Because his counter said _181_ this morning.

Because not having him sounds more painful than losing his colors.

But of course Kiyoomi doesn’t tell him that. He’s supposed to be in love with someone else, he’s supposed to be crying goldens and yellows and browns for someone he came up with, a mere puppet built over Atsumu’s own image, mimicking his features and his voice and everything he is all because Kiyoomi was too scared to admit – to Atsumu or to himself, he doesn’t really know – that what he was feeling was _real_ , that those tears were merely reminders that he was broken, damaged goods, and that there was absolutely no way Atsumu would ever love him back. How could he?

“Let me help.” Atsumu’s voice comes out choked and weird, his hands curled into fists, his eyes darker than usual, a light frown appearing between his eyebrows. “I can’t bear to look at ya suffering like this.”

“It’s my own choice,” is what Kiyoomi tells him with a bitter laugh.

“We can find a way to get rid of those feelings?” Atsumu sits up, eyebrows arched and a bright smile plastered on his face. “We can find a way to make ya fall for someone else and have ‘em return yer feelings, Omi. Ya don’t have to lose every bit of color in yer life.”

Kiyoomi almost laughs.

It’s preposterous to think that Atsumu even _considered_ this possibility, Kiyoomi thinks, and even worse that his heart flipped around as soon as his brain registered those words. Funny how he never even saw this coming, the fall, the crash, the thousand open wounds that bleed out onto his carpet while Atsumu watches, and even funnier is the way he doesn’t even care that his soul has been shattered, that his eyes have been rubbed raw, bleeding in a thousand shades he can’t even recognize anymore and he doesn’t care, gladly gulping down every smile, every chuckle, every glance Atsumu throws at him.

Even if he could, Kiyoomi thinks, he wouldn’t.

Perhaps that’s why it stings when Atsumu mentions it again and again and again.

“What kind of robotic, heartless person do you think I am?” Kiyoomi asks him. “Do you think I’m purposely making myself suffer? Do you think I enjoy not being loved in return? Or do you just think it’s a fun thing to do, crying until your eyes are numb and you’re exhausted and then keep crying after that because you don’t have a choice?”

“That’s why I said…”

“No!” Kiyoomi yells, his fist hitting the pile of open books in front of him, barely missing his computer and phone. “You don’t get it, how could you? Even if I _could_ , I wouldn’t. Have you ever been in love, Miya?”

_Miya._

Not Atsumu.

Not whatever other names he might’ve called him before or in his dreams. _Miya._

With a fast, swift movement, Atsumu sits up and stares right into his eyes, shaking his head so softly Kiyoomi almost misses it. But he doesn’t – and he laughs, shaking his own head in return. Because of course it would’ve been so easy for him, being the way he is, grabbing people by their necks and gripping their hearts with so much strength they were left panting, desperate for the air he’d knocked out of them at first glance. Because of course he wouldn’t have ever felt like someone was crawling under his own skin, swimming inside his veins and slowly consuming everything there was to have of _him_. Because of course he’d be oh, _so easy_ to be loved and yet so hard to love back.

Kiyoomi watches him gulp and watches the way his eyes scan the room, the tears that are now pooling under his eyes, streaming down his cheeks in a mix of honey and brown and everything Kiyoomi now wishes he could simply erase from his mind because _how stupid can someone be?_ And he watches Atsumu as he blinks once and then twice, mouth hanging open and fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt as he forces himself to stare at Kiyoomi.

He laughs. “It’s horrible,” he says. Atsumu widens his eyes. “It’s like you’re cutting yourself open, like you’re stripping down to your very core and letting someone plunge inside and grab your heart with their bare hands. It’s like they’re digging inside your flesh, their nails digging deep inside, into everything you are and stripping you of your very essence. It’s like they’re whispering ancient spells as they do it, as if you’re left in a trance and everything they do is _so good_ you can’t help but want more.”

Atsumu is still paying attention.

Good.

“And then they tell you, not necessarily with words, that you’re not what they want,” Kiyoomi sighs. “They tell you that you won’t ever be enough, that even if you strip down and play along with their wants and needs, you’re still not who they want. Loving someone, in my experience, means the warmth of a smile but also the shivers in the middle of the night as I cry and cry and they’re nowhere to be found. It’s the safety in their laugh but also the pain that echoes inside my chest along with the howling wind right outside my window.”

He’s crying again, the warm yellows and browns cascading from his eyes on full display as Kiyoomi tries to gulp down the sobs that wreck his body, shoulders moving and hands trembling as he forces himself to speak up again and again and again. Atsumu is still staring at him, a painful expression spreading across his features, knitting his eyebrows together and sewing his lips shut in a straight line. And yet.

Kiyoomi can’t stop. “You don’t get to tell me to throw away these feelings like that,” he tells him. “Because _you_ …”

He stops.

He smiles.

He shakes his head and wipes his tears away, crystal tears flowing to the ground along with starry shapes, along with the tinkling and the colors Kiyoomi could no longer see. How poetic it is, he thinks, loving someone so hard you end up losing yourself in everything they mean. How poetic it is to love so much, to have fallen so hard you choose to lose your memories, to lose your colors, to lose everything _good_ just so you can love for a bit longer, just so you can see them smiling at you and have them calling your name in that sweet, sweet voice you’ll end up forgetting in a week or so because the tears are relentless and they won’t ever stop for as long as you love them – and you want to love them until you die.

It’s a tragic comedy, Kiyoomi thinks.

_You are the reason this is happening to me_ , is what he wanted to say, is what he couldn’t bring himself to say. _You are the reason I can no longer see the magnificent glow of the sun and the way it mimics the honey drip of your voice. You are the reason the light has been erased from my mind, the reason why I can only see cold grays and lonesome blacks where there was once golden warmth._ You _are the reason, it’s always been you._

_182_ burns under his bandages. It said _181_ this morning, it’ll say _182_ as soon as Atsumu leaves and Kiyoomi closes the door, and when it finally says _182_ , he thinks, he’ll drop to his knees and cry honey-colored stars and brown droplets will start pouring out into small specks of stardust and soon enough they’ll blend together and start glowing crimson red just like the blood that the stars sometimes bring along, just like the vicious nails that grip his heart and his throat as the goddess smiles down at him with a snicker, _he won’t ever be yours, you’ve fell for the trap._ He did – and he doesn’t care. He wants and wants and wants until there’s nothing left for him to want because one day he’ll forget.

“I just want to help,” is what Atsumu tells him, his voice choked and weird and Kiyoomi swears he sees the glistening of a tear sliding down his cheeks. _How ironic,_ he thinks. “I want to help. You’re in pain. I can’t stand here and let it happen without trying to find a cure.”

Atsumu’s accent seemed to disappear when he was distressed, Kiyoomi finds out. _Cute._

“The only cure is having me throw away these feelings,” he chuckles. “And I’m not doing that.”

“ _Why?”_ Atsumu shakes his head, eyes wide and mouth hanging open in disbelief. “If they’ll never reciprocate, if you’re just waiting for them to take away every bit of color in your life, _why?!_ You could just fall in love with someone else, you could just…”

_Ha._

What a funny thought.

“That’s not happening,” is what he replies, hands curled into fists by his sides. “And besides,” he adds. “It’s got nothing to do with you.” _It does._ “You don’t get to tell me who I love, Miya. Even if it destroys me, even if I end up losing myself in the process. You don’t get to tell me I should just get over it. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“I don’t.” Atsumu tells him. “But it doesn’t make me automatically unfit to help ya.”

“And why would you even want to do that?” Kiyoomi asks.

Atsumu laughs and shakes his head before he sighs, defeated. “Because I care about ya.”

_Not in the way I want you to_ , is what Kiyoomi thinks.

_Not in the way I need you to_.

In the end, he smiles.

He smiles even when the stars start pouring out again, tinkling and shining brightly under the rays of a sun he can no longer see, singing a melody unknown to his ears, dancing along to a song Kiyoomi can no longer hear. He smiles because what else was he supposed to do when Atsumu was still there, when he was looking so wrecked, so worried, and all for him? Kiyoomi smiles and smiles and smiles and at that moment, smiling is enough.

**bittersweet**

**/ˈbidərˌswēt/**

**_adjective._ ** _(of food, drink or flavor) sweet with a bitter aftertaste._

“I think I’m in love with someone.”

A punch to his stomach would’ve hurt less, is what Kiyoomi thinks as he slowly gulps down the knot that had started to settle in the middle of his throat. Atsumu isn’t looking at him, completely enthralled by his computer’s screen, eyes shifting from one side to another as he reads yet another experimental article on the disease. He’d been coming over more frequently now, a bold, itching _203_ hidden under thick layers of gray bandages, yet another color Kiyoomi could no longer see, the memory of those last twenty encounters a big foggy, and when had they met again?

“Oh?”

Atsumu hums. “How did it start for you?”

He’s biting his bottom lip and chewing on the inside of his cheeks, Kiyoomi notices, his hands curled into fists as he breathes heavily. It’s not unrequited, he has a chance, he’ll confess and they’ll live happily ever after and that’s all there is to it.

Kiyoomi can’t help but want to cry, but the tears won’t come.

Atsumu’s hair is painted in grays and dull blacks, his eyes mere whirlpools of white and dotted grays, all warmth drained out when Kiyoomi started to cry him galaxies and nebulae, when Kiyoomi thought he’d ever have a choice when his counter was the only one who counted up, when his heart was the only one beating to a harmony only Kiyoomi could hear. And when had that started again? When was it that his heart started to weep, wailing and sobbing, scratching violently at the insides of his chest, screaming, pleading for mercy, for any kind of relief? When was it that he had started to cry? When was it that the sun lost its color, its brightness, its glow? He couldn’t remember anymore.

“People say falling in love makes ya feel weak in the knees, makes ya feel the butterflies in yer stomach and all that,” he sighs, finally looking up at Kiyoomi from under his lashes. “But I think ‘m broken.”

“Broken how?”

“I’m feeling the damned butterflies and all that giddiness, alright.” Atsumu rests an elbow on the table and closes his eyes for a second, a pout slowly moving his lips. “But there are no colors coming through, no stars, no tinkling, no nothin’. Not even the puking hydrangeas thing, nothin’.”

Kiyoomi almost laughs. _This stupid, stupid idiot._

“Have you ever considered the possibility that they might love you back?”

It hurts to say it.

Kiyoomi doesn’t want to admit it, but it does. It makes jealousy crawl under his skin, settling itself in his bloodstream as it’s carried all around in a matter of seconds. It’s sludgy and uncomfortable and he can almost feel it at the back of his tongue, that bitterness, the horrid feeling that settles now at the pit of his stomach, crawling up his throat with swift, fast moves, as it swirls around his brain and yells at him that _no, you were never enough, isn’t that fun?_ And there’s the goddess again, standing upright right behind Atsumu, her gray, shiny locks burning as bright as Atsumu’s hair, her nails digging into his shoulder while he remains painfully oblivious to it.

He digs his own nails into his palms and tries to gulp down the uneasiness, the lump in his throat and the jealousy that lingers. He stares at gray, lifeless eyes and almost chokes when Atsumu snorts, shaking his head and sighing all at once.

“No, that’s impossible.”

_It’s not_ , he wants to say.

_If they didn’t, you’d be sick_ , he wants to say.

“Why?”

Atsumu laughs a bitter laugh, dropping his eyes to his lap. “Because they’re in love with someone else, Omi-kun. They’re crying colors and stars and everything else for someone else and I’m stupid because I fell for them.”

He wants to feel bad.

He wants to reach for Atsumu’s hand and stroke soothing circles on his palm, wants to tell him he’ll be okay, that falling in love isn’t as painful as the stories say. But Kiyoomi doesn’t want to be a liar, doesn’t want to tell him it’ll get better, doesn’t want to tell him not to lose hope, that they’ll come to love him someday, _how could they not?_ , because the mere thought of saying those things makes his throat itch and burn.

“You’re not stupid,” is what Kiyoomi settles for.

“You can’t choose who you fall for,” is what he tells him.

Atsumu scoffs and shakes his head, clicking his tongue once and then twice, closing his eyes and turning his head away from him. Kiyoomi clenches his hands, fingernails digging into his palms again so hard he thinks he’ll draw blood this time. It’s in times like these that Kiyoomi thinks it would’ve been best if he’d come to hate Atsumu and everything he’d made him feel, if he’d come to hate his voice and the stupid bat of his eyelashes when he wanted something, the strain in his voice when he rolled Kiyoomi’s name on his tongue for longer than necessary, the way he was just so _infuriatingly_ incredible and nothing like the kind of person Kiyoomi thought he’d ever end up falling for.

It would’ve been best, Kiyoomi thinks, if they’d never met.

“Yeah,” Atsumu replies. “But I chose him.”

“So it’s a guy.”

Atsumu snorts. “What difference does it make if it’s a guy, Omi-kun? He doesn’t like me.”

“There are tons of reasons why he wouldn’t like you, I think.” _It hurts._

“Are there? Hm, tell me about them.”

He laughs like an unrequited love doesn’t hurt, like it doesn’t tug on his heartstrings so hard he loses the ability to breathe, like the pain of rejection doesn’t make him bend over and clutch at his chest, at his stomach, at every fiber of his being, like it doesn’t make him sob. Kiyoomi almost envies him, almost ends up on his knees, crying stars again, because it’s still painful to look at him, it’s still breathtaking in the worst way possible and _now_ , he thinks. Now he can’t even remember what his hair looked like, once glowing so magnificently… gray? His eyes are now a pool of cold, swirling grays and whites and blacks and Kiyoomi almost cries, almost misses the warmth of the… wait. What was it again?

Atsumu got the easy way out, Kiyoomi thinks.

“You’re annoying.”

“Thanks.”

“Your voice is hoarse and it makes me want to punch you.” Kiyoomi chuckles.

There’s the sting behind his eyes again, the tears struggling to be let out, suddenly flooding his eyes as if on cue. Atsumu gulps and Kiyoomi can’t help but want to let them out, to sob and ask him to leave because _this is too soon, why would you fall in love with someone when I didn’t even manage to gather the courage to tell you I’ve been crying galaxies for you?, why would you make this even more painful for me? I should’ve hated you instead, but how could I? Please. Please. Please. Free me of you._

“I thought this was ‘bout the reasons why he wouldn’t love me, Omi.” Atsumu laughs a bitter laugh and the sound makes it impossible for him to keep his tears at bay. “Not reasons why Sakusa Kiyoomi would want to punch me.”

“Yeah. Same thing,” he shrugs. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yer just dragging me now, Omi.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“That’s because you don’t have that many redeeming qualities, Miya.” Kiyoomi tells him with a soft chuckle as he tries to pretend his heart isn’t clenching painfully inside his chest, as he desperately tries to keep his tears from falling down his cheeks again.

“Ya wound me when ya talk like that, Omi,” he whines as he puts a hand over his heart. “Why can’t ya be a supportive friend and help me conquer this obnoxious guy’s heart?”

Friend.

Right, because that’s all Kiyoomi will ever be in his eyes. It shouldn’t have hurt this much, he thinks, because he already knew Atsumu would never see him as a potential love interest, how could he, right?, when all Kiyoomi did was tease him and list out every single reason why he was the most annoying person to ever exist, when all he did was laugh at him and be mean, ruffling his hair and telling him off all the time. How could Atsumu ever think of him as anything other than that asshole friend who, apparently, has no tact or subtlety when dealing with his emotions.

“Right.” Kiyoomi sighs.

Tears sting his eyes now, proud and mighty as they threaten to drip down, as they threaten to expose every little thing Kiyoomi’s fought so hard to keep hidden, locked away somewhere so deep, so dark, no one could ever find. People say it starts with the tinkling echoing in your eardrums, so loud you can’t help but cover your ears to try to make it stop; then comes the sting, the rainbows and stars you weep, the wails and sobs you can’t keep to yourself because it hurts so bad you think you’re going to die. And then you lose your colors, one by one, until your eyes are foggy and you can’t seem to recognize shapes anymore, until you can no longer see anything but darkness as it surrounds you, laughing so hard you can’t help but cry some more because, well, people do say love is blind.

But no one’s ever told him they could stop coming, the shooting stars, the colored waterfalls, leaving you in a bleak, dim-lit world you could no longer see through foggy lenses as your heart desperately crawled up your throat, begging for release, begging all rationality to _please, make this love go away, please, please, free me from this nightmare_. No one ever told him the stars and sobs and wails would stop once his world had become this dull.

He loves him still.

Kiyoomi looks at the man in front of him and he wants to cry. Kiyoomi looks at the mess his hair makes as it flows along with the wind that bursts through his open windows and he wants to cry because he still remembers the days where the locks glowed like the sun, in a shade Kiyoomi no longer remembers. Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu and sees him in all of his glory, a smile playing with his lips as he rolls his eyes over and over again, as he turns his attention back to the computer in front of him, and he can’t help but want to cry. Again.

Why did his stars stop falling? When did it become such a comforting feeling, having his eyes rubbed raw, blood mixing with color as it slowly dripped down, painting his cheeks a thousand shades that reminded him of the person who owned his heart, who’d wrapped so many chains around it, who had full control over him? When did it disappear, leaving him to wonder if he was, indeed, truly broken?

_203_ yells at him from under his bandages.

Kiyoomi cries.

“I might be broken, too,” is what Kiyoomi manages chokes out after a sob. Atsumu raises his head, mouth hanging open and frown bringing his eyebrows together. He looks confused, thrilled and expectant all at once and for a second Kiyoomi almost wants to laugh. “Because the tinkling is gone now. I can’t hear the bells, my tears don’t hurt anymore. Is there any record on people recovering on their own without being loved back, without ever getting rid of their own feelings?”

Atsumu takes a deep, shaky breath before shaking his head. “They must love ya back.”

“They can’t.”

“Why?”

Because.

Because while Atsumu is Atsumu, everything good and sparkly everyone would dream about conquering one day, Kiyoomi is Kiyoomi, dark and cloudy and moody and kind of an asshole in the worst way possible, the kind of person people don’t really want to be around, the kind of person destined to a lonely, sad end. Because while Atsumu is all smiles and warmth, even in the gray hue Kiyoomi’s eyes cast over him, Kiyoomi is all frowns and pouts and ice-cold stares even when he doesn’t mean to.

Because Atsumu is Atsumu and Kiyoomi is Kiyoomi – and that’s precisely why he won’t ever be loved back.

But of course he can’t say any of that.

“Because they’re in love with someone else already,” is what Kiyoomi replies, finally, sniffing and wiping his tears with the back of his hand. “And it’s okay. I think they’d have to be pretty messed up in the head to love me back, you know? I’m me, after all.”

Atsumu shakes his head. “Of course not.”

“It’s okay,” he says again. To reassure Atsumu or himself, he doesn’t know. He repeats it once and then twice and maybe even five times after that, still shaking his head and covering his face with his hands when the tears start flowing again.

That should’ve been it.

But it wasn’t.

“They must love ya back,” Atsumu insists. “I don’t see why they wouldn’t.”

“And why do you say that?”

“Yer not crying stars anymore.” He points out. “Only a few days ago ya had galaxies in yer eyes and I hated them. I wanted to get rid of them for good, I wanted to make ya look at someone else, I wanted to make ya look at…”

He stops.

_Oh._

Oh, no.

Oh, _yes._

Kiyoomi feels like the breath has been knocked out of him as he whispers: “Make me look at what? At who?”

Atsumu licks his lips and shuts them in a straight line again, closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths before he gathers the courage to open them back up again, Kiyoomi thinks. His hands are shaking over the table and Kiyoomi can’t bring himself to blame him when his own are safely tucked under his thighs to hide their trembling, to hide his own uneasiness when Atsumu’s expression changes for the umpteenth time in a mere ten seconds.

It’s a funny sight, Kiyoomi thinks, his dinner table filled with unopened books, a computer between two men who couldn’t bear to look at each other, trembling fingers and uneven breaths, pounding hearts and the stubborn, weightless, glittering light coming from the open windows, a trail of brightness leading directly to _him_ because, honestly, there’s nowhere else it could’ve gone to. There’s no tinkling, no bells, only the choked breaths and occasional sighs breaking the silence.

Kiyoomi feels like he’s been hit by a bus.

“’m sorry,” Atsumu laughs bitterly, one of his hands reaching up to scratch his neck. “I’m being stupid, s’all. Don’t worry ‘bout me, Omi. Let’s find a way to cure ya and then make that person fall for ya. I’ll be yer cupid.”

“Atsumu.” Kiyoomi huffs. “Tell me.”

“It’s nothing, Omi, don’t worry ‘bout it.”

Anger boils in his stomach, adrenaline shooting at his nerves, his hands curled into fists over his thighs, his eyes squinted in agony, his throat _this close_ to closing in on itself. Atsumu isn’t looking at him, his hands still laid flat over the table as he takes shaky breaths, his eyes focused on a single spot of his computer screen. Kiyoomi wants to scream, wants to punch him, wants to throw every book in his direction. But he doesn’t. He wants to plead, wants to cry and sob, wants to beg _, please talk to me, tell me everything_ , but he doesn’t. How could he? The itch behind his eyes is back but what trickles down his cheeks is a clear, warm fluid that cleans his eyes and sticks to his lashes.

He’s not crying colors anymore.

There are no stars.

“Atsumu,” he calls again. “I’m not crying stars anymore.”

“Yeah.” Atsumu snorts. “That’s what I was tryin’ to tell ya.”

“The feelings are still here,” he goes on. “But the stars are gone.”

“What’s yer point, Omi?”

Kiyoomi thinks about every possible outcome.

He could tell Atsumu he loved him, he could cup his face in his hands and kiss him, finally, and they’d both cry for wasting this much time, whispering the sweet nothings they’d kept hidden for so long. Or he could keep quiet and brush it off, learning how to live in a world of grays. It’s not that different from what he’s already doing, anyway.

_Fuck it._

“I love you.”

He’d seen this coming now, really. The fall, the crash, the burn and the remains of the person he was before he met such a dazzling person, before he learned his name and tasted his laughter. Kiyoomi takes pride in being smart, being analytical, knowing every possible outcome of a certain situation, but there’s something about Atsumu that somehow blurs his vision and he can’t see anything other than him, standing there so magnificently just like he always does. The point is that Kiyoomi has always thought he’d seen every expression of his, had heard every chuckle and tasted every joke.

He hasn’t.

Because it’s absolutely agonizing.

Atsumu widens his eyes, the swirling coming to a halt for a second, and he lets out a shaky breath as his hands curl into fists and then go back to lying flat over the wood. Atsumu opens his mouth and then closes it again – one and then two and then fifteen times, blinking confusedly at Kiyoomi like he’s suddenly deaf, like he doesn’t know what those three words mean, like Kiyoomi is out of his mind, like there’s no way he’s hearing that, like he can’t believe it because, well, who would, right?

“Come again?”

His voice is choked and weird and Kiyoomi isn’t even sure he’s breathing anymore.

“I said I’m in love with you,” he repeats. “I have been for a while. I’d been crying for you, if you still haven’t noticed, which I’m guessing you haven’t.”

It takes a second to register.

Atsumu frowns, squints, his lips sealed together before he crumbles down, tilting his head to the side and then throwing his whole body forward, his hands flying to his head, fingers intertwining in locks Kiyoomi’s lost the ability to see, a muffled, choked scream coming from his throat as he shakes his head one, two, three times before sitting up again and looking at Kiyoomi with the most composed expression he’s ever seen on his face. He looks scared, excited, surprised and happy all at once and Kiyoomi can’t help but snort, shaking his head when Atsumu lets out a low: “ _Really?”_

“Yes, really.”

“So the stars you’ve been crying…”

“Yes.”

He scrunches up his nose. “Why?”

And they laugh.

It’s not revolutionary, there were no fireworks or an orchestra playing a harmonious love song when they uttered those words to each other, their fingers intertwining over the forgotten books, over the computer they shoved aside. They laugh and joke around as Kiyoomi tells him about the night the first star fell out, about how scared he was to lose himself to such a terrifying emotion, to give himself whole and know he wouldn’t be loved back. Atsumu strokes soothing circles over his hand, winking and playfully saying that _there’s no way I wouldn’t have fallen for ya, Omi._

They share light touches ass Kiyoomi tells him about the way he couldn’t get out of bed because the stains on his sheets looked like _him_ , the thousands of shades in his eyes and his hair, and as cheesy as it sounded, he couldn’t get enough of it. _So ya think I’m pretty_ , is what Atsumu replies and Kiyoomi lets go of his hands as he rolls his eyes, as he sighs and curses the gods for ever letting him fall for this guy.

But Atsumu smiles at him and tilts his head to the side, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth and Kiyoomi can only mimic him as he brushes a strand of hair out of his face. It’s soft and it slides against his fingers in a shade Kiyoomi doesn’t think is right.

“I still can’t see them,” is what he murmurs, his fingertips lingering for way too long over Atsumu’s skin. “The world hasn’t changed. You’re still gray.”

Atsumu hums, his voice lulling him as he says, “We’ll bring them back.”

_If they love you back with the same intensity_.

_Okay_ , he nods.

And when Atsumu smiles at him, Kiyoomi can almost see the honey drip of his hair again.

* * *

**soulmate**

**/** **ˈsōl ˌmāt** **/**

**_noun._ ** _a person ideally suited to another._

It starts with homemade food and wine stains on the carpet. It starts with soft brushes of their fingers, the lingering touch that followed the purple paths under his skin all the way up to his shoulders. It starts with a whisper, a question none of them needed to ask but did so anyway, _can I touch you, can I have you all to myself, is this what you want as well?_ It starts with indecisive, slow kisses and the childish laughter that echoes when their teeth clash because, well, _I didn’t know you were this terrible at kissing people._ It starts with fond glances and sweet smiles, the brush of a thumb over one’s cheeks and the comfort of someone’s arms being wrapped around one’s shoulders.

And then it _starts_.

It starts with hungry kisses and fingers tugging harshly on soft strands of light colored hair as they try to steady themselves. They’re not gray but they’re also not quite honey gold yet. It starts with desperate sighs and the constant nibbling on sensitive skin, with arches of their backs and gasps and whimpers when they finally find what they were looking for. They hit walls and almost fall to the floor before their backs hit the mattress, before they laugh and poke fun at each other simply because _what are you, an animal?_

They might as well be.

“I love you,” Atsumu tells him.

“You’re beautiful,” Atsumu tells him.

Kiyoomi closes his eyes and lets Atsumu make a mess out of him. He kisses his lips, devouring everything Kiyoomi is and also the things he never knew he was, tracing the line of his jaw and nibbling on his neck, sucking light pink, red and purple bruises all over his skin as if he’s desperately trying to mark him as _his._ Not that he needs to, Kiyoomi thinks, but he does it anyway. Atsumu slides his hands under his shirt and touches every inch of skin he can reach, kissing and tasting and biting and doing just about everything he can do – and Kiyoomi lets him, throwing his head back and letting his mouth hang open as he lets out soft, shaky breaths and pitiful whimpers.

It’s only when Atsumu’s fingers reach the bandages on his wrist that Kiyoomi gasps.

“I’ve always wondered,” Atsumu hums against his neck, pressing a chaste kiss to the skin right under his ear. “Why are yer wrists covered like this, Omi? Nasty scars?”

A question he’s asked a million times before.

A question that sounds so intimate now.

“What kind of dirty talk are you into, Miya?”

Atsumu clicks his tongue. “Just wondering.”

“It’s a secret.” Kiyoomi replies.

Swirling grays stare back at him with fondness, a soft chuckle escaping Atsumu’s swollen lips. _Okay_ , he whispers against his neck again, _we have all the time in the world_. When he, once again, starts pressing kisses against his skin, against every sensitive spot he can find, Kiyoomi feels like he’s about to faint. The hidden _203_ screams and complains, the numbers burning his skin and making him feel feverish and sick, hanging tightly onto Atsumu’s shoulders as if he was the only thing that was still keeping Kiyoomi sane.

_203_ glows for him and for him only.

What beautiful prose, Kiyoomi thinks. A silent song, a silent sonnet, something that shall never see the light of day. _203_ that’ll shapeshift into _204_ as soon as the sun rises in the morning and Kiyoomi opens his eyes to find him sleeping beside him. _204_ that’ll shapeshift into an infinite sequence of consecutive numbers every time he spots the easy smile and open arms Atsumu sports just for him. How sad it is that he’ll never be able to see it.

Kiyoomi is still panting, sprawled out on top of his bed as Atsumu slowly gets up. His eyes are hungry as he watches Atsumu’s every move, from the way his chest rises to the way he gulps when his eyes focus on Kiyoomi’s image. He smiles, tongue poking out of his mouth and lips tentatively biting down on his bottom lip as he winks, _you look hot_ , is what Kiyoomi thinks he meant. His cheeks blush furiously when Atsumu’s hands lock on the hem of his shirt, when he throws it over his head, when his fingers start working on his pants.

_Fuck, this is actually happening._

“Like what ya see, Omi?” Atsumu asks him with a chuckle.

Kiyoomi gasps. “Yeah.”

It was a rhetorical question, he knows that. Atsumu widens his eyes and laughs, nodding softly as he finally, _finally_ , lets his pants fall down, as he stands there half-naked in all of his glory. Kiyoomi gulps down, trying to get rid of the itch in his throat, trying to make himself think anything other than _fuck, fuck, fuck_ because the sight before him is surreal and he’s not even sure he’s alive anymore. That is, of course, until his eyes finally regained their focus and his brain fully registered what they were seeing.

_Fuck_ indeed.

“You have a soulmate,” is what Kiyoomi manages to choke out between shaky breaths.

_Yes._

_It’s there._

Atsumu halts, looking at him with his head tilted and mouth hanging open. “Yeah?”

“Come here.”

He takes one and then two steps towards the bed as Kiyoomi struggles to sit up, as he struggles to breathe and to keep his tears at bay. Atsumu is _here_ and there are numbers etched onto his skin like a tattoo, right where Kiyoomi wouldn’t have dared to think about until today. _Of course that’s where his counter would be,_ he thinks as Atsumu stands in front of him, as he sits beside him and lets Kiyoomi touch his skin with trembling, unsure fingers. _It’s okay_ , he whispers as he presses a kiss to his shoulder, _you can touch me, you can have me, I’ve always been yours._

It’s there, triumphantly smiling at him as if it’s saying _I’m here!_

It’s there.

_203_ smiles at him from under his fingers, _203_ burns his skin from under his bandages.

_It’s there._

“You have a soulmate,” Kiyoomi repeats. “Why didn’t you tell me about your counter?”

“Everyone has a soulmate, Omi.” Atsumu replies as he intertwines their fingers over his counter. “I figured it wasn’t important since ya never talked about yours. And mine isn’t exactly placed in a conventional, casually mentioned place, is it? I couldn't just come up to ya one day and casually talk about the way my counter was misplaced and ended up on one of my thighs.”

Kiyoomi laughs, shaking his head. “I would’ve called you a creep.”

“My point exactly,” he laughs. “And it’s _you_ , isn’t it?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t answer.

His heart is pounding, the blood rushing abnormally fast all around his body, his lungs suddenly devouring every molecule of oxygen they can find and it’s still _not enough_ because Kiyoomi is no longer breathing, his mouth is hanging open in shock and he can’t help but tear up again because _oh, lords_ , everything is too much and _Atsumu is too much_ and Kiyoomi is so in love it hurts. _203_ burns him from under his bandages when Atsumu touches the fabric, when he starts taking them off with a soft smile on his face.

“It’s _you_ ,” is all he says back as he stares at the number on Kiyoomi’s skin, as his fingers softly trace them, as a smile slowly tugs his lips up. “Because it counts up when we’re together. I didn’t notice the first few times because it would add up randomly before I met ya, but after we started spending time together I noticed it.”

_Yes._

“Why did ya hide it?”

“My cousin,” Kiyoomi tells him. “And then _you_.”

Atsumu laughs, his eyes glowing a bright shade of something Kiyoomi can’t see, his hair a mess of a thousand grays and blacks, his cheeks colored in a slightly different shade than the rest of his skin and he can’t help but laugh along with him. Atsumu’s thumb is stroking soothing circles over Kiyoomi’s wrist, over his counter and the number he thought he’d never be able to show off, the number that once brought pain and uncertainty, the number that now screams Atsumu’s name as he leans forward and presses a chaste kiss over Kiyoomi’s lips, once and then twice and then a third time after that.

Their teeth clash again when Kiyoomi dips his fingers on Atsumu’s hair, pulling him impossibly closer and then they’re laughing again. Atsumu is over him now, his head tilted to the side with a thousand question marks floating around it as Kiyoomi presses one of his hands over Atsumu’s chest.

“I love you.” Kiyoomi tells him.

“And I,” Atsumu whispers before reaching down to press a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. “I love _you_.”

“Yeah,” he replies with a shaky breath. “Yeah, I know.”

Atsumu’s body is warm against his, is the first thing Kiyoomi notices when they curl up against each other under his blankets. Atsumu has a tendency to hug things as he sleeps, is the second thing Kiyoomi notices. Atsumu smells like _home_ , as weird as that sounds, is the third thing Kiyoomi notices after he’s fallen asleep, his long lashes casting a shadow over his cheeks and Kiyoomi can’t help but stare at his peaceful sleeping face. He pouts and scrunches up his nose in his dreams, he murmurs Kiyoomi’s name over and over again, and sometimes he lets out a soft chuckle followed by a soft, _hmm, Omi._

_204_ greets them with a bird’s chirp.

The colors aren’t fully back in the morning, but when Atsumu opens his eyes, whispering a soft _did ya stay up all night staring at me?_ and smiling coyly as soon as Kiyoomi tells him that _yeah, you’re cute when you’re asleep,_ Kiyoomi can almost swear he sees the flickering gold inside his eyes again.

Well.

They have all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> you're free to come yell at/with me on [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/aaIphard) (´꒳`)


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